


WIP - Valentine's Day Prompt

by Dreadfort



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, No Mary, Post Reichenbach, Romance, johnlockchallenges, prompt, valentines day prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 12:01:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreadfort/pseuds/Dreadfort
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is seriously injured in a fall while he and Sherlock are chasing a suspect in a remote part of England. With limited supplies and no mobile service, Sherlock must keep John alive in the wilderness until help arrives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	WIP - Valentine's Day Prompt

**Author's Note:**

> I'm extremely sorry to the person who gave me my excellent prompt, but life has absolutely slammed me so I haven't been able to finish this at all. I have some pockets of free time over the next week so I'll be doing my best to edit and finish this as soon as possible.
> 
> What's posted is my current work in progress. Expect it to undergo changes and to lengthen considerably.
> 
> In the meantime, if anyone has any critiques or suggestions, they'd be very welcome :)

The sickening crunch of rotten wood breaking and the softer whump of John Watson’s body hitting the concrete floor below them was almost hidden by the shocking violence of the gunshot that started it all.

“What have you DONE?” Sherlock roared at the suspect, who was clutching his ringing ears – _unused to guns_ \- and still brandishing the weapon wildly.

The next second Sherlock had struck the gun away with his hand and was grappling with the man’s knife. In the small gaps between his brain screaming _JOHN GET TO JOHN NOW JOHN JOHN_ time wasn’t making sense.

“I’ll kill you,” Sherlock said in a voice shaking with hatred. “If he’s dead, I’ll kill you – do you hear?” He shoved his elbow into the snivelling man’s stained shirt – _lives alone_ – and pushed him into the wall, gripping the man’s wrist. He smelled of gunpowder and sweat.

_JOHN IS IN DANGER_

“I will track you to the ends of the earth and I will take away everything you hold dear, if that is what you have just done to me.  This is a _promise_.”

_JOHN IS DEAD HE IS DEAD AND YOU KILLED HIM JOHN_

And Sherlock whipped the man’s wrist downwards, ripping his humerus from his scapula, and ignored his shrieking.

_GET TO JOHN_

Collecting both the knife and gun, Sherlock threw himself down the rickety barn’s ladder, and there among wisps of abandoned hay lay the crumpled form of his best friend.

_JOHN GOD NO_

Gentle fingers traced their way quickly over John’s body, assessing damage.

_LET HIM LIVE OH GOD LET HIM LIVE_

A light exhale of breath tumbled over Sherlock’s hand.

_OH GOD_

_JOHN_

 

 ---

 

 

“You’ve got three broken ribs, suspected cracked skull and possible internal bleeding. I forbid you to move.”

“Yes, thank you Sherlock, I didn’t realise you were the qualified doctor in the room.”

“You’re still moving.”

“My arm’s gone to sleep!”

Sherlock tapped his useless mobile against the dusty floor.

“Well then, John, in your qualified doctor’s opinion...”

“Yes?” John prompted, poking the belstaff-covered hay he was lying on into a slightly more comfortable position. 

“Without medical attention, how long will you live?”

John glanced up quickly. Sherlock was staring at some indeterminable point in the distance. His gaze was harsh, but something was glimmering near the surface.

John thought about lying, but almost instantly rejected the idea. Sherlock was asking because he needed data, accurate data, and he was a bit of an idiot if he thought he could get away with lying to the ridiculous man.

“I don’t know,” he said eventually. Softly. That steel gaze flicked across to his, and the small explosion in John’s heart rate that resulted reminded him that there was a lie he was idiotic enough to attempt. The one he chanted to himself daily.

It was funny, that lie. He barely noticed it changing until it had.

_I’m not gay._

_We’re just friends._

_He doesn’t feel things like that, I don’t think._

When Sherlock threw himself off Bart’s the lie had shattered on the pavement as well. The truth only began to be acceptable when there was no hope of it occurring.

Then Sherlock had come back. And so did the lie.

_I’m not gay._

But now the lie was cracked; a hasty patchwork job. A child closing his eyes and thinking no one can see him, because he can’t see them.

It wouldn’t take much for it to blow apart in his face.

“Not long.” John whispered, and rolled himself deeper into the coat.


End file.
